The Wounded Guardian

by Duncan Lay

  Martil was worried it would become unpleasant in the depths of winter but Merren assured him that was still months away. As well as being extensive enough to house all the men and their families, there was plenty of fresh water from a nearby stream and an abundant source of game through the woods. Barrett was careful not to tell Karia about it, but each day he summoned deer, or birds and rabbits for the cooking pots. As well, all the rebels had brought copious amounts of dried oats and salt.

  The caves were hardly comfortable, but they did their best to make them liveable—again. They had found some unusual drawings on the walls, as well as piles of old bones and rotting animal skins.

  ‘This must have been a home to the goblins,’ Sendric decided. ‘Perhaps even the seat of their High Chief! Before we drove them into the north, they were all through this forest. It would have been an ideal spot for them.’

  Martil looked at the crude paintings of hunting and dancing and wondered at the life they had left behind here. From what he had heard, the northern mountains were harsh and inhospitable. The paintings fascinated Karia as well.

  ‘What sort of creature are these goblins?’ she asked, trying to compare her hand size with the handprints on the cave walls.

  ‘They look similar to us, a bit shorter, much hairier and their speech is very different. Once this was all theirs. But this is a rich land, with fine forests, good farmland and deposits of gold and silver. When our people began to settle the land, the goblins tried to drive us away. But they could not hope to stop our cavalry, archers and armoured infantry. For years they raided us and fought back but they have accepted the reality that this will never be theirs again, and they leave us alone,’ Sendric told her.

  ‘I would love to meet one,’ Karia sighed.

  ‘I don’t think that’s going to happen,’ Sendric smiled.

  Martil reflected that the goblins may not have known how to defend their land from the invading Norstalines but they knew how to find a good home. It was almost ideal. They had used crude stone walls to divide the caves into useful areas. With some enthusiastic help from Karia, Barrett conjured up powerful blasts of wind to clean the system, then encouraged huge amounts of herbs to grow, which were then magically dried and placed around the caves. The smell of lavender, lemon balm and thyme freshened the stale caves. Furniture from the magician’s lodge, as well as from Sendric’s country home had been brought along on pack animals.

  The country home, a huge house with a score of bedrooms, had proved a godsend, providing everything from a huge variety of clothes and blankets to tables, chairs, plates, cutlery, food, spices, a number of domestic animals and even two female servants who were remarkably accommodating. Sendric, Martil and Barrett all felt it was not essential for Merren to discover that fact. The families had only been able to bring along as much as they could carry—getting them all out of the city had been a task in itself. Luckily the underground passage had another entrance, into the cellars of a house belonging to the commander of Sendric’s personal guard. The men and their families left both this way and through the gate. Obviously they had been forced to leave much behind and anything they lacked, such as beds, had to be built.

  Once the early work on the caves had been done, life settled into more of a pattern.

  During the day, the women worked to grow food, as well as to keep the caves clean and make them feel more homely. They also had a never-ending task of washing and cleaning clothes. Sendric’s country house had provided plenty but living in woods and caves, and working and training, meant those clothes did not stay clean for long.

  As to the men, training them was the most important thing. They were in three groups, and Martil made these into squads, trying to use the rivalry between them to spur each other on.

  First came Sendric’s guards. There were two 10-man squads, as well as two sergeants and a lieutenant called Rocus. They were all well armed, with mail shirts, shiny helmets, shields with the Count’s crest, and long swords. They had been drilled to perfection—to carry out ceremonial duties. However, the manual of arms was not the best teaching device for the skills necessary to break through a shield wall. And if their swordsmanship was clumsy, their fitness was abysmal. Too much time standing post, and not enough time running, had them exhausted after only a taste of Martil’s training.

  The hunters numbered eleven, as well as a chief hunter called Tarik. These were fit men, used to running all day and night, brilliant archers to boot, but unused to working with others. They operated in small groups of two or three usually, were unable to take orders and were just as likely to chase after a deer as they were to follow Martil’s instructions.

  Then there were the militia. Sendric had tried to choose those men with at least ten years’ service, but not so many years that they were too old for this sort of venture. He had selected a dozen men, as well as a lieutenant called Wime. They were tough men, who were all veterans of tavern brawls and street fights. Martil knew this type of experience could not be beaten; it was the sort of thing needed to survive a battle. They were crafty, could take orders, and knew all about operating as a team and protecting each other’s back in a fight. But they were only armed with thick wooden sticks, and wore only boiled leather coats for protection.

  Each group had its own abilities, and its own weaknesses. Using each to the greatest benefit would be the real challenge.

  Martil felt it was important to work them hard, to stop them thinking about what they were doing. Obedience and loyalty to Count Sendric had brought them here. But that would not be enough when it came to a battle. They had to believe in their cause. And that would take time.

  The first day they looked a strange sight. The guardsmen were lined up immaculately, two ranks, sergeants at the ends, Rocus at the front, all in their polished armour and all standing to attention. The hunters stood in a group, chatting among themselves, while the militia had formed into a rough line but stood relaxed, waiting to see what he would do.

  Martil had no intention of giving them a big speech, or impressing them with his war stories. It was more important to win their respect.

  He set them against each other in pairs, trying to ensure each fought against a man from a different group. It made for some spirited exchanges, as guardsmen accused militiamen of unfair tactics when they used moves they had learned in street fights.

  Martil tried to show them all how to handle their swords better, persuade the guardsmen that nobody was ever sent from the field of battle for cheating and explain it was no good complaining when your guts were hanging out.

  Martil worked them hard, trying to get their fitness up first. The hunters excelled here, making the other two groups look foolish on the runs, while the guardsmen were left floundering even on the forced marches.

  But although they were the group that finished last most often, the guardsmen had a stubborn pride that he liked. You needed that in battle.

  Of course there were other problems.

  Karia was less than impressed with the amount of time Martil was spending training the men. She wanted to come along, which was impossible. Martil had forbidden any of the men’s families to come and watch, partly because it was a distraction, and partly because he did not want the men to be humiliated in front of their wives and children as they trained. There were quite a few children in the group but Karia found it hard to play with them. Her tendency to announce things better left unsaid had meant a few children of the militiamen had even started asking what a ‘shit-slinger’ was. Barrett giving her magic lessons proved to be the saviour, although Martil disliked the time she spent with him.

  Merren was another issue. She was happier to at least be doing something but she was always demanding more in their regular council meetings. Conal and Sendric had formed an unlikely partnership, and rode out each morning to scout around the area and see where they might be vulnerable—as well as where they might be able to spring an ambush. From them she demanded news and pushed them to make contact with
any nearby farmers. Barrett, who was using the local birds as his scouts, was ordered to range further, to find out more, to come up with a way for Martil to use the Dragon Sword properly.

  The meetings always started with a solemn inspection of the Dragon Sword, to see if the dragon on the hilt was indicating anything. It stayed stubbornly inanimate. Martil began to dread these meetings and did his best to avoid them. But there was no escape. Merren insisted he also instruct her in tactics and logistics, so she could catch up on the lessons in warfare she had missed in her childhood. He did enjoy this, for she was a quick learner and soon saw how creating an army was not just about gathering men but also about weapons, food and training.

  Perhaps too quick a learner, because Martil was ordered to push the men harder, faster. Reports of steady progress were dismissed. She wanted things to happen now, if not yesterday. Above all she wanted to know what Gello was doing, and that was something they could not answer, much to her displeasure. The meetings often ended with her shouting at them, then ordering them out.

  After an unfortunate incident early on, they also tried to keep her away from the men’s families. Some of the women were naturally concerned, both for their men and for themselves. Especially the guardsmen’s families. These had been plucked from their cosy quarters, where they received a privileged life, and dumped into the woods. The camp was comfortable enough, with food, water and shelter, but it was still a far cry from the neat row of houses the pampered guardsmen had lived in.

  A delegation had tried to meet the Queen, to ask how long they would be out here and when they might retake the town. Merren had been less than impressed to receive this delegation, given she was already chafing at the delay herself. After some choice words, the wives were sent packing and Martil, via Rocus and his sergeants, had to calm the families down. After that, they ensured any questions from the families went to Sendric first.

  Martil felt this was perhaps behind her unusual order, which saw him take sides with Barrett for the first time—against her.

  ‘This skulking around in the forest is intolerable! Why don’t we just get Barrett to take us back to Norstalos City? We could bring these men with us, then use his power to burst into the palace and destroy Gello!’ she declared one evening. ‘After all, if he’s such a powerful wizard, and you’re such a skilled warrior, it should prove no problem!’

  Martil and Barrett had exchanged horrified glances before Barrett hurriedly spoke.

  ‘My Queen, my power is finite. Yes, I could bring all these men to my house in the capital. But the effort would exhaust me. I could do little to break into the palace. And that is even presuming I can get out of the house. After the way we rescued you, Gello would undoubtedly have the place watched. We could be walking into a trap.’

  Martil decided he’d better back up Barrett. ‘Merren, you’ve seen how Gello has guarded the palace. There’s a full company of troops on duty there at all times. He won’t be caught the way your Royal Guard were. We would be attacked as soon as we got into the plaza in front of the palace. That means the cavalry would have time to mount up and charge us before we got to the gate. It would be a massacre. And even if Barrett could get us past them, there’s a second company there in reserve as well. We’d be outnumbered four to one. And after all that, if we were somehow able to sneak inside and kill Gello while those men out there sold their lives to give us the time, killing Gello may not be the end. You’ve lost the throne. All those who support you are out here, while Gello has many supporters. His army officers could take control, or one of his backers.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Sendric agreed. ‘Either Cessor or Worick would see themselves as the next logical successor. Do you think they would tamely submit to your rule again?’

  Merren eventually agreed, but they could tell she was seething about it, days later.

  Still, these were enjoyable days for most: the woods where they worked and lived were far from any villages, and, apart from Merren’s meetings, it almost seemed as though they were cut off from the rest of the country and its problems. Martil always ate with Karia, and often Conal would join them, and later, Wime, Tarik, Rocus and their families. Conal seemed to be changing, as well. He was still ready to try a jest rather than say something serious, but the fact he could ride and work with Count Sendric, and receive nothing but praise from the old noble, said volumes.

  The quiet times with Karia were the perfect counterpoint to Martil’s day, even though she still liked him to play dolls with her. Not having to think about tactics, or training, or the political situation down south, was truly relaxing.

  Karia had been worried about the idea of living in a forest—the last time she had done so, she had hated it. But this was very different. It was a better time of year, warmer, with less rain for a start. Then there was food, there was Martil and finally there was her magic. Working with Barrett was exciting and each new discovery was thrilling. She looked forward to the tests and training almost as much as she looked forward to stories from Martil. She did wonder why Barrett kept taking her to the Queen and talking about her progress, but she thought he was just being nice. It was strange. He was nice to her, and Martil was nice to her, but the two of them were never nice to each other. She sometimes wondered why.

  One day Barrett and Karia wandered past the training ground as Martil was demonstrating how a man with just a sword could still beat a man with a sword and shield.

  ‘Come to join us?’ he called to Barrett. ‘Feel like making a real contribution to our campaign?’

  There were plenty of chuckles from the men at that. The wizard may be on their side, but that did not mean he was particularly liked, or trusted.

  ‘No thanks, I wouldn’t like to make our War Captain look foolish in front of his men,’ Barrett shouted back.

  There were a few incredulous gasps and cries from the listening men, who had had ample chances to see how good Martil was with a blade.

  Martil looked closely at Barrett. He had wanted to send the man on his way quickly, so Karia would not demand to watch him for the rest of the afternoon and upset the men whose own children wanted to be spectators. But surely the mage did not want to be humbled in front of the men. He had seen enough wizards to know they were hardly useful on the battlefield. ‘Are you truly suggesting you could match me in combat?’

  ‘No,’ Barrett replied.

  Martil started to turn away, a small smile on his face.

  ‘I’m saying I would beat you.’

  Martil turned back. He knew he should make some jest and then quietly ask Barrett to move along, but he had not become a war captain by doing the quiet, sensible thing. Besides, now was his chance to shut this bloody wizard up.

  ‘Why don’t you stop talking and come and show me,’ he suggested.

  Barrett smiled coldly. ‘It should be a short lesson,’ he retorted. He knew he should have let the muscled oaf have his moment of fun and just turned around but in truth he was feeling unappreciated. Merren was never happy with his reports, although somehow she was more pleased by Martil. He felt the lessons Martil was giving her were to blame for that. Then there were the men of this small rebel band. He was the Queen’s Magician, one of the most powerful men ever admitted to the Ninth Circle. He was also responsible for ensuring everyone was fed. But was he feted, was he admired and applauded? No, it was that bloody Ralloran that they all went on about. He had had enough.

  In a matter of moments, the two of them were standing in a huge circle of men, with many of the women and children hurrying to join as well. Both men wore tunics and trousers, although while Martil held two short wooden swords, Barrett just had his staff—until he closed his eyes for a moment.

  The crowd gasped as Barrett’s staff, a stout stick perhaps four feet high, was now twice its length and thick enough so that two hands could not encompass it. And Barrett was twirling it around as if it weighed no more than a feather. Martil had no doubt that if it struck him, it would not feel like a feather. Well, the w
izard had pulled a clever move, but the game had not even started yet.

  ‘Whenever you’re ready,’ Martil invited.

  Barrett nodded, then crouched and leapt, soaring twice the height of a man into the air, before bringing his staff down in a huge swing as he landed, the force of the blow making a strange singing noise through the air, and creating a wind that made the crowd’s hair fly.

  But Martil was not there, having ducked and rolled away as Barrett took off.

  ‘You know, if you could do that in battle, we would have a use for you at our side,’ he said conversationally.

  ‘I can do better. Watch,

  ’Barrett smiled, and the crowd gasped and cried out as his skin darkened, turning a deep wooden colour. ‘Arrows will just bounce off me. Swords could only just pierce my skin. Only an axe blow could hurt me now.’

  ‘That’s a clever trick,’ Martil admitted, then attacked even as he was talking. Once he was inside that fearsome staff’s reach, he knew he could hit Barrett.

  But the wizard did not wait for him to arrive, leaping up and over Martil’s head, and striking back as soon as he landed. Martil spun, ducked under the staff and jabbed his wooden swords at the wizard’s chest.

  Barrett seemed to float backwards, the massive staff moving impossibly swiftly to block every one of Martil’s blows, while the wizard’s feet barely touched the ground as he moved away.

  Sweating now, Martil stopped pursuing him, and instantly Barrett leapt forward, the giant staff weaving and darting, humming loudly with the force of each blow. Now it was Martil’s turn to dodge and weave. He ducked, jumped, sidestepped and used both swords to block the blows, his footwork dazzling. Every piece of trickery he had learnt across the southern battlefields, every training session, was being utilised. But he was not thinking about it. The screams, calls and cries from the crowd, the fact even Merren had come out to see what the commotion was, none of those things affected him.